


What It Takes to Survive

by dreamlittleyo



Series: I'm Not Sorry (Kinky Dice Oneshots) [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Trek Fusion, From Dubcon to Noncon in Alarmingly Short Order, Fuck Or Die, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Possession, Rape, Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2019-06-09 10:48:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15265845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: Hamilton knows damn well magic isn't real. But that doesn't help when he finds himself trapped in an impossible cave that requires an intimate sacrifice if he wants to return to the ship. He is shocked when his captain agrees to assist, but what other choice do they have?





	What It Takes to Survive

"This is ridiculous." Hamilton can feel the futility of his protest, the absolute pointlessness of railing against something so far beyond their control. "Magic _isn't real_."

"Regardless." There is a strained quality to Washington's voice. "Whether we believe the underlying precept or not, the trap remains."

Unhappy heat inches up Hamilton's spine, and he can only imagine how brightly flushed his face has become. Just from _discussing_ their circumstances, not even doing any damn thing about it. His rational mind refuses to settle and accept what both his senses and his tricorder are telling him: that comm frequencies won't break through the sourceless interference surrounding them; that the transporters would not be able to reach them even if they _could_ contact the ship; that the only way out of this goddamn cave is through the archway that _will not let him pass_.

The chamber they're standing in is not just a cave. It's a sanctuary of some kind. A ritual space, with low benches carved of stone—carved directly into the uneven floor as far as Hamilton can tell—and a much larger ornate block that serves as an altar.

They know it's an altar because the universal translator is having no trouble with the symbols carved into every wall of the sanctuary. The writing is voluminous—half religious text, half cryptic instruction manual—and leaves no doubt as to the purpose of this space.

Hamilton resists the urge to try leaving through the archway again. Fifteen times he's already made the attempt. Alone. Alongside Washington. Following a step behind. Taking the lead. Even allowing himself to be carried once. Washington can reach the outside corridor, but Hamilton fails every time.

The puzzle is maddening. The tricorder insists there's no source of energy blocking the way. There is no visible barrier. And when they throw anything inanimate across the threshold—there are plenty of loose stones, plus the contents of their supply packs—the object sails cleanly through. It seems to be _only Hamilton_ who cannot go back the way they came.

The conundrum is consistent with the admonishments carved into the walls, but that doesn't mean he's happy about it.

"Captain." Hamilton keeps his tone as calm as he can manage. "This is pointless. You should climb to the surface without me and come back with excavation equipment. I promise I won't go anywhere." This last he adds with a hint of cheek, trying to lighten the mood, but Washington only glowers sternly for several seconds before answering.

"It will take three hours to reach the surface, and that's assuming the journey goes smoothly. Even once I'm out of the cave system, there's no guarantee I'll be able to contact the ship. This interference didn't start until we tried to leave. And…" Washington's expression shifts to something… not soft, exactly, but warmer. Protective. It's a look Hamilton has seen before, and he's not surprised when his captain concludes, "I'm not willing to leave you alone down here. We will have to find another solution."

If _Hamilton_ were in charge, he would order Washington to leave. They've already tried cutting their way through the walls with their phasers—suspiciously ineffective—and they have no other resources. Only the equipment they brought into this cave with them, none of which offers any sort of answer.

Frustration screams beneath his skin. They can't just stay here praying the ship will find a way through the mysterious interference. But Washington is right. There's no way to be sure they can contact the ship even from the surface. And much as he wants to argue that they should still _try_ , he knows he will not convince his captain to split up. It goes against Starfleet protocol. They have to explore all other options first.

And there _is_ another option. It licks embarrassed heat along Hamilton's skin—not to mention raising a complicated host of other feelings that he refuses to examine too closely—but there is one thing they haven't tried.

"We need to have sex."

Washington startles visibly at the pronouncement, and turns to stare at him with impossibly wide eyes. If it weren't for the cluster of anxious sensations twisting in Hamilton's chest, the look of incredulous horror could almost be funny. As it is, humiliation shivers along his skin. It's not as though Washington wants him; of course his captain is horrified at the suggestion.

"We will do no such thing," Washington says after a moment of incredulous gawking. "There must be a more practical way out of this trap."

"We've tried all the practical options." Hamilton starts setting his equipment down on the stone floor: tricorder, communicator, phaser, medical kit. "The information on these walls is unequivocal. I can't leave as long as I'm a virgin."

Fuck, his face burns saying it out loud. What does some stupid cave on some long dead planet care that he's never put the time or effort into getting laid? Washington's eyes go even wider at Hamilton's blunt words, even though he must have known this was the problem. Hamilton still doesn't believe in magic, and he can't fathom how some ancient alien technological mechanism can tell he's never been intimate with anyone, but he can't refute the facts in front of his face.

He _is_ a virgin. He won't be permitted to traverse that goddamn archway without paying appropriate tribute. And it's pretty clear his own right hand won't do the trick— _that_ is an intimacy Hamilton has engaged in plenty of times—which means his captain is the only game in town.

It's not until Washington cuts his gaze away and answers, "Very well," that Hamilton realizes he didn't really mean it. That he genuinely thought his captain would refuse and finally agree to break protocol, travel to the surface without him. A harsh way of calling Washington's bluff.

But apparently Washington wasn't bluffing, because his agreement is as firm and determined as Hamilton has ever heard.

Hamilton's heart pounds faster, and his face burns. He's not going to back out now. He won't retreat from his own suggestion, but the thought of Washington touching him is daunting. It leaves him jittery and off-balance, and he doesn't know what to say. Not because Washington is unattractive—god knows Hamilton's caught himself staring more than once—but because he is _Washington_. Somber and sturdy and implacable.

He is Hamilton's captain. Controlled. Competent. Impossible to picture engaged in any pastime so base as sex.

When Hamilton tries to imagine those enormous hands on him, his brain shorts out, a bright surge and then nothing. He doesn't even know what to ask for. How to start. He can't remember the last time he felt this helpless, and he hates it.

Not quite enough to admit he is terrified, but he hates it just the same.

"Okay," he says, though his mouth and throat are suddenly dry. "What do we do?"

The wall writings are thorough, but not _that_ thorough. They make it clear Hamilton can't leave while he's a virgin, but they don't describe in detail the kinds of activities that will satisfy the not-actually-magic of this cave.

Washington stirs at the question, locking him in a curious look. The hint of confusion clears quickly enough; it must belatedly occur to him that Hamilton has no damn idea what he's doing. That's the problem, after all. That's why they're trapped here in the first place.

Slowly—as though trying not to spook him—Washington lowers himself onto one of the long benches. Makes a show of setting his own collection of standard-issue Starfleet equipment down on the uneven floor, one item at a time.

"Let's be practical about this." Washington's voice holds so steady that Hamilton _knows_ the show of calm is a front. "The less experimenting the better. Tell me what experience you _do_ have, and we can focus on other things."

Because after all, there are plenty of ways to be a virgin. God, this conversation is surreal. 

Hamilton remains standing exactly where he is, a safe distance from his captain who is asking for uncomfortable candor as though they simply need to fill out some sort of medical form. If only he didn't know Washington's tells—if only he _couldn't_ see straight through the demeanor of calm, and intuit the discomfort beneath.

This situation is awful enough already. He doesn't need to think about the fact that Washington can't possibly want to touch him, any more than Hamilton himself wants to be touched.

"Um." He hates how fucking helpless he sounds. Hates even more the benign look Washington gives him as Hamilton fails to answer. Fuck, it's not as though this is going to get any easier if he lets himself think about it. Hamilton swallows hard, squares his shoulders, and announces with unconvincing bravado, "I haven't done anything. With anyone."

"Then come here," Washington says, too gently to be an order, tone giving no hint of surprise or judgment, "and let's start with something simple."

It's easier than it should be to cross the sanctuary and stand before his captain. Washington looks up into Hamilton's face. Considering eyes pierce straight through him, and Hamilton resists the instinct to squirm beneath the unrelenting scrutiny. He's not sure _anyone_ has ever looked at him like this before. He's never felt so completely known—so naked—and the fact that it's _Washington_ looking at him this way is…

Disconcerting.

"Are you all right, Lieutenant?" Washington's eyes scan his face more deliberately now. "Are you sure about this?"

And oh, Hamilton has no intention of backing down now. No matter how fast his heart is beating, or how frantic the buzz of adrenaline. His pride won't let him sound the retreat.

"Yeah," he manages. And then, "We… How do you want me?"

Moving slowly—obviously allowing him time to call a ceasefire—Washington reaches for him and curls his hands over Hamilton's hips. It's a gentle touch at first, but turns more commanding after a moment. Guiding him downward until he sits securely astride Washington's lap. Warmth between his thighs and the stone bench hard under his knees. 

His captain's eyes are even more piercing up close, and Hamilton's breath hitches. He clings to Washington's upper arms where he grabbed on for balance. Washington's mouth is turned down at the corners and his brow is furrowed. Determination flashes in the striking features of his face.

"I don't know what you need, Alexander." It's the softest thing Washington has said since they entered this damn cave. "Whether it would be better to treat you like a lover or keep things professional."

The threatening twist of laughter in Hamilton's chest would turn all too quickly to hysteria if he let it out, so he squashes it down and answers the implied question. "If you're about to put your hand on my dick, I don't think 'professional' will last long anyway." 

His comment doesn't earn him anything so reassuring as a smile, but at least the downward turn of Washington's mouth eases.

Hamilton is startled to realize he's half hard beneath his uniform. Clinging to the bravado that has carried him this far, he adds, "Look, don't overthink it, okay? I don't know what I need either. We can't even be sure this will work. So just… Pretend I'm someone else. Whatever you gotta do. I don't mind."

Without breaking eye contact—without allowing _Hamilton_ to break eye contact—Washington slides one hand from his hip to the intimate space between their bodies, and cups the stiffening arousal beneath Hamilton's uniform. A heartbeat passes between them, and Hamilton wants desperately to look away. But he can't. Those dark eyes are drilling into him too fiercely, and the firm touch feels so damn _good_.

Then Washington presses harder, trapping his cock and grinding against him, and Hamilton's eyes close as a sound of startled pleasure gasps between his lips. Hamilton's grip tightens on both Washington's arms, and he catches his lower lip between his teeth. Helpless. Floored by how incredible it feels, and Washington has barely touched him.

"It's all right, Alexander." Washington's voice is soothing. His hand between Hamilton's legs stays exactly where it is—delicious pressure—clearly not bothered by the abortive little movements of Hamilton's body seeking friction. His other hand lifts away only to reach higher. He tugs Hamilton's queue loose and curls long fingers at the base of Hamilton's skull. Guides Hamilton's head down to his shoulder. "It's all right. I've got you."

Hamilton whimpers. He's not proud of the sound—of how small and shaken it makes him seem—but at least it doesn't scare the touch away. He presses his hot face into the collar of Washington's uniform. Inhales sharply when his captain's powerful hand shifts against his cock, managing a firm stroke through the fabric of his uniform.

Another moment and that hand eases back. Hamilton's hips stutter forward, instinctively chasing the lost contact but only wedging himself tighter along Washington's front.

It takes him a moment to comprehend _why_ Washington has stopped touching him. He figures it out as a lighter dance of fingers pushes beneath the hem of his shirt and fusses with his fly.

"Can I?" Washington asks, half finished with the fastenings but moving slowly enough to stop if Hamilton protests.

Hamilton draws a shaky breath. His cock is fully hard now, and he burns with a humming, aching need. Unfamiliar. The arousal he's managed beneath his own hand was nothing like this, and as for other people…

He's never had the patience to consider other people. His studies, his career, his rampant ambition… They don't leave room for more. Certainly not dating. Intimacy. Even casual sex. These things are distractions. Hamilton has trouble enough carving space into his life to maintain the few close friendships that have snuck under his radar. He's never allowed himself to consider anything else. Whenever the desire for something more complicated tugs at him—so rarely as to be laughable—he sets the longing aside and forges on without.

But Washington's touch is overwhelming, and deft, and far better than Hamilton bargained for.

" _Yeah_ ," he breathes when Washington stills his progress, waiting for an answer. "Yeah, you can— I'm good. Keep going."

Washington breathes an approving sound and slips his hand inside Hamilton's uniform, finds his cock, draws it out past rumpled fabric. Hamilton tries to keep quiet, but he can't choke down the moan of pleasure. His whole body jolts forward, but Washington takes everything in stride. Calm. Measured. He curls long fingers around Hamilton's eager length and strokes from root to tip and back again.

" _Fuck_!" Hamilton muffles the shout against Washington's throat, and oh, he is trying _so hard_ not to think beyond the physical sensations. But he can't will his brain silent. Which means he can't shut away the knowledge that it's his captain touching him. Stern, controlled, exacting—his commanding officer—a man who has always kept Hamilton at a professional distance despite the obvious wish to see him succeed. A mentor behind a thick wall of decorum and propriety. A commander but not a friend.

All those things are a perfect and improbable contrast to the man touching him now. Holding Hamilton on his lap like a lover, touching him with breathless care. Murmuring soothing nonsense in his ear as Washington begins to move his hand more quickly, coaxing Hamilton ever higher.

There isn't enough air in this cave. Hamilton's chest rises and falls shallowly, his lungs working overtime, and it's not enough. He's still lightheaded. Still lost and shaking as he comes apart beneath Washington's clever touch.

Washington's other hand is a reassuring weight at the nape of Hamilton's neck. Grounding him and keeping him close. Hamilton is grateful for the gesture, even as his mind and heart shy from the intimacy of it.

He recognizes the irony. That the hand on his cock is touching him in ways no one else ever has, but it's the warmth curling at the base of his skull that's _too much_.

Pleasure twines and shivers through him, making his toes curl and his lungs catch. He lets go of Washington's biceps in favor of wrapping both arms around his captain's shoulders. He can hide his face even more completely this way. Muffle the litany of desperate sounds escaping despite his best efforts to keep quiet. God, he doesn't even recognize his own voice. Wordless pleas echo behind every gasp and moan and cry, and he is so close. So ready to come. So helpless to topple himself over the edge.

His own hand has never felt this good.

" _Please_." Hamilton gasps the word against Washington's throat, can taste the heat pouring off his skin. Feel the rise and fall of the powerful chest along his front. "Please, sir, finish it."

Washington does not say a word, but he changes the angle of his wrist just slightly. Jerks Hamilton's cock a little harder. Swipes his thumb over the head and pauses to press maddeningly along the slit. Hamilton chokes on a guttural cry of pleasure, but it's not until that broad hand strokes his full length one more time that he groans and comes, spilling across Washington's palm and making a mess of both their uniforms.

It's several shaky moments before he's settled enough to push back a little, straighten from his place curled along Washington's chest. His heart is still beating painfully fast, but he can breathe again. He can even bear to look Washington in the eye as his captain searches his face for… Something. Reassurance that Hamilton is okay, probably; the lines they just crossed are substantial.

It's not until Hamilton drops his gaze that he realizes Washington is hard too. An impressive erection tents the fabric of his captain's uniform, and Hamilton wonders how he managed not to feel the nudge between his thighs, considering a moment ago he would've been sitting directly on top of it.

But then, a moment ago he was a little distracted.

He licks his lips nervously and says, "Do you want me to—"

"No." Washington's tone is mild despite the interruption.

Hamilton raises his eyes and finds the strangest mix of heat and exasperation peering back at him. He's never seen anything like it on his captain's face. Maybe it should bother him. That is not a disinterested expression.

But Washington has refused Hamilton's offer to return the favor, and his tone leaves no space at all for negotiation. Whatever he might be interested in, he clearly has no intention of making a play for it. Hell, it's probably got nothing at all to do with _Hamilton_ , beyond the simple fact of having a warm body in his lap. A man can hardly be blamed for responding to all this friction and proximity.

"I'm sorry," Hamilton says, even though he's not sure exactly what he is apologizing for.

Washington's face takes a more decisive turn towards exasperation, and the hand at the back of Hamilton's neck slides forward to cup his jaw. "You have nothing to apologize for, Lieutenant. Why don't you clean up and try the exit again? Perhaps _now_ we can go home."

Hamilton scrambles clumsily off Washington's lap and crouches to open the nearest medical kit. Not an orthodox use of supplies, but he expands a towel to wipe himself down—startles only briefly when Washington snatches it a moment later to clean his hand and uniform—and then Hamilton tucks himself away, fastening his fly with fingers that are only trembling a little.

For all his hope, he approaches the archway carefully. The last thing he wants is a concussion. He's glad for his caution when he raises a hand and finds the same invisible, immovable barrier blocking him. _Fuck_. He sets his other hand against the wall and pushes uselessly forward. No give. A frustrated breath and he closes his eyes, lets his forehead fall against the unyielding, impossible surface.

"It didn't work." He sounds lost, even to his own ears. "It wasn't enough. What— What the fuck are we supposed to—?"

"Panicking will not help," Washington's voice cuts in calmly.

Somehow the words manage to _not_ sound patronizing, and they quell the spiral threatening to capsize Hamilton. There is something infinitely practical in Washington's tone.

He pushes himself off the invisible barrier and turns around, finds Washington on his feet and approaching. Washington stops just out of touching range. Peers at Hamilton steadily. Makes no move to cross the remaining space that separates them. He wears a guarded expression and there's new tension in his shoulders; but he still does not look _upset_. Merely intent. Focused.

"What do we try next?" Hamilton can't keep the trepidation out of his voice, no matter how he tries to sound sure of himself. Fuck, just a few minutes of Washington's hand on his cock has thrown him into what feels like an alternate goddamn reality. How is he supposed to cope with _more_?

"That's up to you," Washington answers, a little cagey but with no sign of withdrawing his help.

Hamilton shakes his head, stomach clenching at the idea of _asking_ Washington for… For what, he's not entirely sure. Plenty of other first times left to try, but how can Hamilton make demands when Washington doesn't even want him? When _all of this_ is just a captain trying to protect a stranded member of his crew?

"I can't," Hamilton says, barely more than a whisper. "I can't just _tell you_ what to do. Bad enough I'm using you like this in the first place, how can I…"

Washington surges forward, then. Closes on him and wraps Hamilton up in an improbable hug. Hamilton gasps at the warm crush of a body that should not feel this familiar. At the strength in Washington's arms closing around him. At the sturdiness settling around him like a foundation of stone, simultaneously terrifying and exactly what he needs.

"Breathe, Lieutenant," Washington murmurs the word against his hair. "We won't do anything you don't want. I give you my word."

"What about you?" Hamilton asks, low and desperate. " _You_ don't want this." He's sure of it. Washington is pressed against him—all along his front—and there's no sign of the erection Hamilton spotted in his captain's lap a few minutes ago.

"Believe me, I will be just fine." He sounds so sure, and Hamilton is desperate to believe him.

"Okay." He resists the urge to wrap his arms around Washington in return. He refuses to cling to his captain like a terrified child.

Washington waits only a moment before letting go and taking a measured step back. Still close enough to touch, but no longer doing so. His brow is deeply furrowed and his eyes are dilated. He wears the aspect of a man who is thinking very, _very_ hard.

"How quickly can you try again?" Washington asks. "Perhaps my mouth will be more effective than my hand."

Hamilton is on the verge of answering that he has no damn idea how soon he can get hard again—it's not like he makes a habit of jerking off multiple times a night—but heat ignites low in his belly at Washington's suggestion. Fuck, he should not be turned on at the idea of his captain's mouth, but his spent cock gives an unmistakable twitch of interest. Washington's eyes are on his face; he hasn't noticed the renewed stiffening beneath Hamilton's uniform.

"That—" Hamilton starts, only to stop at the uncomfortable gravel in his own voice. He hesitates. Swallows. Forces himself to keep meeting Washington's eyes when he answers, "Yeah. We could try that next."

"If you need a little time to recover first…"

"No." Hamilton's face burns, but there's no point hiding now. "I'm— I don't think it'll take much. Um. Where do you want me?"

Washington seems to consider for several seconds, before finally cocking his head to the side. It's a clear command, and Hamilton obeys, sidestepping the empty hall and putting his back to the archway itself. He leans against the stone, cool along his spine, and lets his fingers thoughtlessly seek out the grooves that form written symbols in the porous surface.

"Go ahead," Washington says, hanging back.

Hamilton blinks. It honestly takes him a moment to realize Washington isn't going to touch him first. That he is waiting for something—for Hamilton to initiate things by opening his own uniform—taking his own cock out. Shame burns his cheeks, not just because he feels stupid for needing constant guidance, but because it's one thing to be commanded and touched and given pleasure with no conscious effort on his own part. This is different. Deliberate participation.

But it is also reasonable for Washington to expect this of him, to tread with caution and make Hamilton set the pace. 

He overcomes his hesitation and fumbles his uniform open, draws himself into the open air. He shivers at the chill—the cave didn't seem so cold when he was in Washington's lap—but gives his half-hard cock a measured stroke. He can't keep meeting Washington's eyes as he touches himself, so he lets his gaze fall to the floor. Working his hard-on from tentative to rigid, embarrassed at the sound of his own breath panting in his ears.

Hamilton wonders if Washington is watching, or if his captain has likewise turned away.

He does not have to wonder long. The point is abruptly moot when Washington moves forward. Not touching—he seems almost hesitant despite the way he is looming—but putting himself directly in front of Hamilton. Impossible to ignore.

With a shiver of anticipation, Hamilton takes his hand off his cock and—once he is no longer touching himself—raises his head. They are doing this; there's no point hiding his face.

"Are you ready, Lieutenant?"

"I think so," Hamilton says.

Washington arches a single eloquent eyebrow at him.

Hamilton closes his mouth, swallows, and then offers an amended answer. "I'm ready. I'm _definitely_ ready." He does not voice the _Let's get this over with_ that threatens to sneak out alongside the words. The last thing he wants to do is remind Washington just how far from ideal their circumstances are. Christ, the man is about to fellate him, the last thing Hamilton wants is to seem ungrateful.

A nod, a beat of silence, and then Washington is sinking to his knees. Hamilton watches, riveted by how gracefully his captain moves. He has never considered Washington _graceful_ before. Regal, confident, agile. But this is different. Elegant. Dignified in a way Hamilton very much doubts _he_ would appear if their positions were reversed.

"Don't lock your knees," Washington admonishes, poking at one of Hamilton's legs with a chiding finger.

Hamilton huffs, but he loosens his stance and clenches his hands into uncertain fists at his sides. He's already breathing fast, and the rush of his heartbeat pounds noisily in his ears.

"Here." Washington takes Hamilton's hands, guiding them to his shoulders. "You can hold on to me."

Hamilton lets out a longer breath and uncurls the clenched fists so that he can grip solid muscle instead. Intimidating but also steadying. Warm beneath Hamilton's shaking palms.

Then Washington curls one enormous hand at the base of Hamilton's cock and ducks forward, licking a deliberate stripe along the straining length.

"Oh, _fuck_ ," Hamilton gasps. The teasing sensation is strange and intimate compared to the grip of Washington's hand. His hips try instinctively to stutter forward, but Washington holds him pinned firmly in place. No leeway as his tongue swipes flat over the ridge of Hamilton's cock before teasing more firmly along the slit. "Oh god, do that again."

Washington obliges, then opens wider and draws the head of Hamilton's cock into his mouth. His lips are maddeningly soft, his tongue still a taunting pressure along the underside of the shaft. The broad hand at the base gives a tight stroke along the remaining length of Hamilton's cock, settles against Hamilton's body once more as Washington draws him deeper.

Hamilton is shaking. Fuck, it feels so good he can't breathe, and his body is trembling hard. He must be bruising the hell out of Washington's shoulders, gripping like he is, but his captain does not protest. No, Washington just closes his eyes, bobs his head lower, and keeps moving. Establishes an unpredictable rhythm that leaves Hamilton gasping curses and trying to thrust forward—unsuccessful every time—winding him tight with unfamiliar pleasure.

Jesus, if this is what he's been missing, he's gonna have to look into better time management. Carve a little space into his life for more intimate activities. He sure as hell isn't going back to the thoughtless celibacy that got him into this mess—not when the alternative feels so goddamn incredible.

When Washington opens his throat and swallows him all the way down, Hamilton's eyes roll back and he knocks his head against the wall hard enough to hurt.

Washington immediately withdraws, keeping both hands on him but easing back far enough to ask, "Are you all right, Alexander?"

"Yeah," Hamilton groans. He's staring at the ceiling, and his head throbs a little where it connected with stone, but he's just fine. Senses spinning, arousal so sharp he might explode into shrapnel before he manages to orgasm, vision blurry with tears he has no intention of acknowledging. His center of gravity is so fucked it's a damn good thing he has Washington to hold onto, or he'd probably topple sideways. "Yeah, fuck, I'm good."

He's half afraid Washington will argue with him. Insist on slowing down. But thankfully, after another watchful moment, Washington drops his jaw and swallows Hamilton again. Repeating that last, blessed maneuver and then— _fuck_ —keeping perfectly still with Hamilton's entire cock down his throat. Even the hand at the base has moved aside in favor of allowing Washington closer, and his nose nudges at Hamilton's stomach as those gorgeous lips spread wide.

Hamilton stares down at his captain, disbelieving and so turned-on his chest hurts.

Washington's eyes are closed, a look of fierce concentration furrowing the normally smooth planes of his brow. His hands grip Hamilton's thighs tightly. Stilling even the faintest forward movements. He looks…

Christ, he looks _beautiful_ , and that is not knowledge Hamilton is equipped to deal with.

Then Washington swallows around him, the muscles of his throat working, sending a fresh and overwhelming wave of pleasure along Hamilton's senses. And it's too much. Hamilton's eyes flutter helplessly shut, and his head falls back—less painfully this time—against the archway. He twists his fingers in the fabric of Washington's uniform, holding on desperately as Washington pulls back only to slide forward again. Letting Hamilton's cock fuck right back down his throat. Taking him deep once more.

It's probably for the best Hamilton can't get enough leverage to _move_. He can only imagine how challenging it must be, for Washington to continue as he does. Opening his throat and taking Hamilton deep, time and time again. Giving himself over to _Hamilton's_ needs, as though this is the simplest decision he has ever made.

Hamilton sobs when the pleasure is too much. Sensation coils beneath his skin, ignites along his nerve endings. He can't take much more of this. He's so close; he won't last.

" _Sir_ ," he manages, loosening his grip so he can tap emphatically on one of Washington's shoulders. He can't find clearer words to announce that the precipice is too close, that he _can't stop_. But the warning must be enough, because Washington's hands at his hips give an answering squeeze, accompanied by an audible hum that shivers along Hamilton's cock and tips him over the edge.

Little as he considered how this would play out—little as he considered _anything_ beyond the brain-stopping thought of Washington's mouth—Hamilton is still shocked Washington swallows. The soft, wet heat works him through the rush of orgasm, as well as the shaky aftershocks of pleasure that follow.

It's a damn good thing Washington is holding him against the wall. A boneless satisfaction twines through Hamilton's body after he comes, and he would almost certainly fall on his ass if not for the support of his captain's hands on him. When he manages to open his eyes, Hamilton blinks and finds Washington peering up at him. Dark skin flushed even darker with heat, lips wet and swollen.

Washington's eyes are wide, but then so are Hamilton's as he stares into his captain's face. 

He's still clinging to powerful shoulders. He can't seem to make his fingers let go.

Amazing how a few short moments can feel like an eternity. The silence between them stretches uncomfortably long. Hamilton doesn't know what the hell he's supposed to say, or why this feels so much worse—so much better—so much _more_ than the first time. A thank-you feels inappropriate, but he has to say _something_. One of them needs to break the silence, and Hamilton is the talker in this room.

But it's ultimately Washington who manages to shake himself free of whatever frozen impasse has closed around them. He settles back on his heels and takes his hands off of Hamilton. Pushes to his feet without assistance.

"Try now," he says, voice graveled from either their recent activities or from feelings Hamilton can't hope to parse.

Hamilton startles. Remembers there was a _purpose_ to what Washington just did for him. He straightens from the archway and fumbles his cock back into his uniform. Shivering and painfully aware of Washington's eyes following his steps.

He moves for the open corridor as soon as he trusts his legs not to give out beneath him, and this time he doesn't raise his hands in front of him. Surely _this_ was enough. More intimate than the measured stroke of Washington's hand. More inescapably personal. He tries not to wonder how he can go about his normal shift tomorrow, and the tomorrow after, but surely even an improbable magic cave won't consider him a virgin after an orgasm like that.

The barrier is still there. Hamilton walks right into it—not at high speed—but still feels like he's propelled himself at a solid wall. He bangs his nose and shoulder, and curses as he stumbles back.

He rubs his nose and glares at the corridor. Frustration roils in his stomach. This isn't fucking _fair_. It should have goddamn worked, and now…

Now there's only one more thing they can try.

Technically there are more. Infinite permutations on _sex_ they could attempt, but if coming down Washington's throat didn't do it then Hamilton can't imagine any more creative configuration doing the trick. Worse, sex isn't going to get _less_ strange between them with repetition. The more ways he and Washington fuck, the more of a disaster their working relationship will be. Things are already going to be surreal and uncomfortable, considering what they've already done.

There is also the simple, practical consideration that Hamilton has just come twice. He can't keep going ad infinitum. He's only human for god's sake.

There is a soft scuff of movement behind him, and when Hamilton turns from the door he finds Washington sitting again. Arms folded over his knees as he rests on one of the low stone benches. His head is turned so that he can watch Hamilton even though his body is facing the front of the cave.

His expression is perfectly unreadable. Hamilton didn't know his captain could pull off a poker face this good.

Hamilton moves away from the door—toward his captain—but he doesn't sit. For all that his legs are shaky and he feels like a hard breeze could knock him over, he's too restless to sit. His face is inferno-hot and probably bright red when he stops before Washington and says, "You'll have to fuck me."

There's a stir low in his belly at saying the words. Not enough to stiffen his exhausted cock, but a spark of interest he does not expect and will never admit to. He's too tired to agonize over this new revelation—the fact that he _isn't_ mortified at the idea of Washington's cock inside him—and it hardly matters at the moment. Their conundrum is the same.

Washington swallows visibly. "If you're suggesting—"

"I'm saying you need to penetrate me," Hamilton blurts, because he can't bear to prolong this by dancing around the blunt truth. "It's the only thing we haven't tried." Again, not strictly true. But near enough, and it's clear from the narrowing of Washington's eyes that his captain understands. That he agrees.

"Perhaps we could…" A deeper blush stains Washington's cheeks—it should not be so appealing to behold—and it takes a moment for him to regain the steadily pragmatic tone from before he went to his knees. "Perhaps _you_ should penetrate _me_. If you've never done this before…" There's another lengthy pause, this one more somber, before Washington concludes, "I would never forgive myself for hurting you."

And oh. God. There is _so much_ Washington has just said, and all of it cascades through Hamilton's mind in an avalanche. Too much to parse at once. The offer to let _Hamilton_ top. The implication that _Washington_ has done this enough times to know what's what on both sides of the equation. The protective admission that has no right to speed Hamilton's pulse the way it does.

"That's…" He tries to start, but his mouth has gone dry. Hamilton closes his eyes and swallows, licks his lips. He keeps his eyes closed as he answers, "I don't think I can. Even if I knew what the fuck I was doing right now, I can't… I'm done, sir. I've got nothing left. Unless we want to camp out here and try again in the morning, it's gonna have to be you."

"Oh." There is so much feeling packed in that one syllable.

Hamilton opens his eyes in time to see Washington rise from the bench. Agitation tightens the captain's movements, furrows his brow, narrows expressive eyes. There's no sign of the poker face from so short a time ago. This is a complicated tangle of emotion on display, and Hamilton cannot begin to decipher it all.

Another moment and Washington seems to will himself calm. He turns, lets his gaze sweep the entire cave. Hamilton knows, intuitively, what his captain is doing. Assessing strategy. Finding the most comfortable way to do this, because it's not as though they came equipped to fuck on the floor of a goddamn cave.

For all his inexperience, Hamilton isn't clueless. He's read things. Seen erotic recordings. He can do the same mental math Washington is doing. The floor is uneven—rocky and pebble-strewn and uninviting. The low benches are better, but too narrow to lay across; one or both of them will inevitably fall and knock their skull on something if they try and do it there. Those benches are also too low to kneel and bend over; might as well just do it on the floor as take that route, and the floor is as unappealing now as it was ten seconds ago.

They could do it standing. But the cave walls are just as rough and patchy as the floor.

There's the altar.

Hamilton's attention catches on the stone altar at the very some moment Washington's does. It's a massive thing—larger than the bed in Hamilton's quarters—and the stone looks perfectly smooth. Hamilton approaches with unnecessary caution and slides his palm across the surface. It's flawless to the touch, level and polished to a shine. Even more incredible, it's warm. More likely a trick of thermodynamics than magic, but Hamilton doesn't care. He'll take what comfort he can.

"Yes," Washington says from behind him. Hamilton hears a rustle, a click, fumbling sounds—Washington must be digging through the medical kit—and when Washington joins him beside the altar there is new determination in the captain's stride. The small metallic packet Washington tosses down on the edge of the altar looks completely innocuous. Visually identical to the dozen other substances in the compact medical kit. But Hamilton knows exactly what it is.

His face burns with the knowledge that they are doing this. His exhausted body will make the experience uncomfortable at best. Rationally he knows this. But he also knows they have to try.

Well. He knows _he_ has to try. The fact remains, he has no right to demand this of his captain—any more than he was entitled to the assistance Washington has already provided—and Hamilton haltingly turns his head, raises his chin.

"Are you sure you can do this?"

Washington quirks both brows, then glances down his own body. Hamilton's eyes follow and he is startled to find Washington's hard-on has returned in full force. It looks downright uncomfortable, the way the bulge strains beneath unyielding fabric. And Hamilton wonders if any part of that interest is truly for him.

He crushes the thought. It's a question he cannot allow himself to ask.

Determination swells in Hamilton's chest, along with a bright surge of bravado. Damn it, this is _just sex_. The world hasn't ended from anything else they've done. Surely one further intimacy won't do any more damage than the rest. If seeing Hamilton like this—touching Hamilton like this—will make it impossible for Washington to take him seriously as an officer, it's far too late to reroute now.

"Okay," Hamilton says, as much to brace himself as to tell Washington he's ready. He crouches to tug his boots off his feet, then straightens, hoists himself onto the high stone ledge. He still wears his uniform. A poor tactical choice maybe, but hell, stubborn bravado can only carry him so far at once. Barefoot but otherwise fully clothed, he scoots toward the center of the altar, his heartbeat speeding as he wonders exactly how his captain will touch him.

Washington takes a step closer and sets a hand atop the altar—but instead of climbing up, he freezes, curling forward with a pained sound.

"Sir?" Hamilton can't see his captain's face, and he scoots nearer the edge. "Sir, what's wrong?"

When Washington raises his head, his eyes are glowing. Bright, incandescent white. His palm remains flat against the top of the altar, and fuck, there's light there too.

It can't be magic. It fucking _can't_. But whatever it is, Hamilton wants no part of it, and he recoils toward the far side of the altar. He needs to get away before whatever is affecting Washington reaches _him_ ; he needs to find his tricorder and get a reading, find out what's going on and _make it stop_.

But before he can slip down to the floor, Washington's voice echoes through the sanctuary. "Stay exactly where you are, Alexander." There is familiar command in that tone, but also something more. Something rumbling and awful—a different kind of power—an echo of something impossibly ancient.

Hamilton freezes. Motionless atop the altar, unable to even correct the off-balance way he's braced on one elbow. Unable to do anything but stare as Washington climbs up to join him on the wide, smooth stone.

" _Relax_ , my boy," Washington admonishes, gentle tone undercut by the disconcerting rumble of power.

It's like the words have released Hamilton from invisible chains. He can move again. But before he manages to continue his escape efforts, Washington is on him. Grabbing him, dragging him toward the very center of the altar as though Hamilton weighs nothing. As though he doesn't even notice the way Hamilton twists and jerks against him trying to get away.

Hamilton grunts at finding himself pinned beneath Washington's weight, his wrists trapped in broad hands and pressed to the stone. The unnatural glow of Washington's eyes is even more intense up close, and Hamilton's breath goes shallow. Fast. Terrified.

What the fuck is happening?

"Please let go of me." He tries to sound calm but only manages quiet.

Washington's brow furrows. "Why do you look scared? I promised I would take care of you."

Hysteria bubbles in Hamilton's chest, and a single bark of laughter escapes at the absurdity of those words when Washington is _holding him down_. When Washington is… is what? Possessed? Under the influence of… Whatever the fuck is keeping Hamilton trapped in this room? He has no information, nothing to work with, and he is powerless beneath inescapable strength.

"Not like this," Hamilton manages, breathless but coherent. He twists in Washington's hold, trying to gain some room to maneuver, but the grip at his wrists turns punishing and he stops with a gasp of pain. "Get the fuck off me, I don't want it like this."

Washington blinks, genuine confusion sweeping his face. It's difficult to read his expression without the help of the dark eyes Hamilton knows so well, but his pinning weight eases. He loosens his hold on Hamilton's wrists. He's still on top of Alexander, still bracketing him with his body and rendering escape impossible, but he seems a little less threatening.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Washington promises, sincerity pulsing with power.

Hamilton draws a sharp breath. "Then let go of me."

Miraculously, one of Washington's hands _does_ release him. But when Hamilton wedges his arm against Washington's chest and tries to push him away, his captain does not budge. Another moment and there are fingers carding through his hair, brushing staticky strands from his face. Hamilton tries to look away—Washington's eyes are too close—they are blindingly bright, and terrifying, and Hamilton can't keep looking at them.

But the hand brushing through his hair shifts, curls beneath his jaw, and forces his head back up.

Hamilton closes his eyes.

He breathes a startled sound when Washington kisses him. Should have seen it coming, god, the way Washington is touching him. But he's shocked to perfect stillness by the hard press of his captain's mouth, unable to turn his head away with that broad hand gripping his chin.

Even without speaking a word, Washington manages to convey inescapable command. His tongue traces the seam of Hamilton's lips—stubbornly closed—and then there's a warning sting of teeth. A harder nudge of that insistent tongue.

The grip around his other, still-trapped wrist tightens with bruising force, and Hamilton recognizes it for a threat. He opens his mouth. Allows Washington's tongue to thrust past his lips and lay possessive claim. The vice holding his chin eases, slips away, slides more gently along the line of his throat. Hamilton's skin heats at the touch, and shame pulses in his chest at the knowledge that he is responding even to this.

He doesn't try to evade the kiss again. He remains obediently still until at last Washington breaks away. They're both breathing fast—Washington with obvious arousal—Hamilton with anticipation and fear. He has no delusions of escaping if Washington, compromised as he is, intends to keep him on this altar and follow through on his promise. Washington is a wall of muscular strength; Hamilton is no match for him physically, and this isn't the sort of trap he can talk his way out of.

He still tries to slip away when Washington retreats far enough to start removing Hamilton's clothing. He doesn't succeed. All he accomplishes is a fleeting delay, and a careless tearing of fabric. Washington's relentless hands keep hold of him and continue their efficient work. Dragging Hamilton's uniform off him, piece by grudging piece.

There is jarring patience in the way Washington touches him. In the measured force of his hands, the judicious weight of his body, the murmured admonitions to calm down, relax, _breathe_.

As though there is any chance at all of Hamilton doing any of those things.

He's completely naked when Washington shoves him onto his stomach and drags Hamilton's legs apart so he can kneel in the space between them. A broad palm presses hard at the small of his back, keeping him down. Rendering resistance useless. Hamilton hisses as his spent and sensitive cock is trapped between his stomach and the warm stone of the altar, and he tries instinctively to close his legs, never mind that he _can't_. That Washington is positioned to make any such effort impossible.

" _Breathe_ , Alexander," Washington chides him again. Leans down just long enough to press a slow kiss to the side of Hamilton's neck. Hamilton bites back a whimper at the incongruously gentle contact. Turns his head so that his cheek is pressed to the smooth stone surface, and he can keep an eye on Washington behind him.

Washington glows more brightly than ever. He's rubbing the fingers of his unoccupied hand together—slick and shining wet—he must have opened the lubricant from the medical kit. 

Panic cinches tight around Hamilton's heart, and his jaw clenches. God, he was nervous enough when it was just Washington touching him, just another step in a line of desperate experiments; when he knew what he was getting into, at least in the abstract, and was confident he could end it by saying _no_. But this Washington is wrong somehow—familiar mannerisms wrapped up in whatever is fucking with his head—and he's made it clear he will not stop.

Hamilton catches his lower lip between his teeth and bites down hard, self-inflicted pain to prevent himself from begging. He can't bear the humiliation—or the helplessness—of having his pleas ignored.

A dry hand caresses his ass, warm grip holding and spreading him so that slick, blunt fingertips can trace the sensitive skin between his cheeks. He gasps as one of those fingers circles his entrance, drags over his hole. Teasing him. Making his blood rush and his lungs heave. Drawing him taut as a bowstring.

The trace of movement stops. The fingers still, and then one presses inexorably into him. Fuck, that's just _one finger_ , and it's so much. Hamilton's breath hitches and he tries to get away, only to be pinned more firmly in place, Washington's free hand sliding up and bracing at the base of his spine. Holding him down easily with a fraction of Washington's weight, as the finger in Hamilton's ass slides deeper.

"This doesn't have to hurt." The rumble of Washington's voice is more soothing than it has any right to be. "Try to relax your body, Alexander. Take deeper breaths, let me make you feel good."

Hamilton breathes a sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh, gripping the edge of the altar above his head because fuck, he needs to hold on to _something_.

" _Good_?" he echoes in a shattered voice. "Jesus, you're holding me down and forcing your fingers inside me, and it's supposed to feel _good_?"

"If you'd just cooperate—"

" _Fuck you_ ," Hamilton snarls.

Washington breathes a disapproving sound. When the lone finger withdraws, Hamilton has only a moment to appreciate the respite before there are two digits there instead. His ass protests the wider intrusion, his body straining as both fingers force their way deeper. The way is slick, but he's too damn tight. It _hurts_ , and Hamilton exhales a broken sound. Tries again to close his legs, only to be made vividly aware of Washington's enormous hand between his thighs, the warm bulk of him still kneeling between Hamilton's legs.

He hasn't seen Washington's cock, but he's not an idiot. He knows those fingers are _nothing_ in comparison.

Then Washington curls his fingers, presses hard against a particular spot inside Hamilton's body, and pleasure ricochets across his senses like a cannonade. And fucking hell, rationally he knows what just happened—he knows what a prostate is—but the reality of it is so much more intense than he imagined. He cries out, raw and overwhelmed. Whimpers when Washington does it again.

"That's better," Washington soothes, and the weight of his hand on Hamilton's back turns momentarily soothing. He draws his fingers out, fucks them forward again. Hamilton grunts and lets go of the altar's unforgiving edge in order to bury his face in his arms. Pleasure and pain and humiliation intertwine beneath his skin, and he can't bear the thought of Washington seeing him like this.

Even though Washington is the one doing this to him.

Even though Washington is _still touching him_ , driving both fingers deep, curling and twisting and stroking inside him. Pressing against his prostate again and wringing a muffled cry from Hamilton's throat.

He is honestly not expecting Washington to be patient. He forced a second finger in so quickly, has Hamilton trapped and helpless. What's to stop him from simply slicking his cock and fucking right in, now that the bare minimum of prep has been done and there's at least a slim chance of successfully forcing his way inside?

But Washington takes his time. Two fingers only, for what feels like an eon, adding more lube when the drag is too much, fucking into him over and over again. Endless and rhythmic, until Hamilton's body is almost used to the unfamiliar intrusion. Until the sounds Hamilton is swallowing are moans of pleasure instead of grunts of pain, and his body is alight with overstimulation. It's almost hypnotic once he gets used to the pattern of it. Out. In. Twist. Curl and stroke.

When Washington introduces a third finger, it's like a cruel prank. There's no warning, only a sudden wider stretch drawing a startled cry from Hamilton's throat. The burning, aching _too-fucking-much_ hits him all over again, and his attempts at escape renew, albeit weaker than before.

It's laughably easy for Washington to keep holding him down, and his struggles subside quickly. Resignation pins him just as securely as Washington's hands.

And despite the discomfort—despite the rage and fear of being overpowered and violated—there is an unwelcome shimmer of arousal warming his blood. It coils inside him and leaves him trembling. Fuck, he hates it. Hates that even as his rim stretches painfully, there's pleasure taunting him too. Making him question if maybe he wants this after all. Making him simultaneously desperate for more, and sick to his stomach at the very thought.

He whimpers into the crook of his elbow as the three fingers stretching him thrust all the way in—groans a hitching breath when they spread wider inside him.

"Please," he hisses despite his best efforts not to speak. "Please stop."

He knows Washington won't stop. He isn't the slightest bit surprised when his plea goes ignored in favor of the same slow, intimate patience as before. Washington's relentless touch torments and loosens him, until those three fingers are sliding easily. Completely out, then all the way back in again, Hamilton's exhausted ass giving way easily.

It's another eternity before Washington's hand disappears from between his thighs. Hamilton twists in place, peeking over his shoulder. He doesn't try to get away—he knows damn well there's no point, and he has no more fight left—but he needs to _see_. He watches Washington fumble one-handed with his uniform, sees him reach beneath the gaping fabric and draw his cock out. Sees him slick himself generously, though somehow the quantity of lubrication is not reassuring in this moment.

Hamilton doesn't have a whole lot to compare his captain to. Digital archives are one thing. He's never seen an aroused cock in person besides his own, which means he has no real sense of scale. But Washington is bigger than him by a whole fucking lot. Long and thick and curving toward his belly. He looks massive—all the more so when Hamilton imagines that rigid length forcing its way inside him—and a new burst of panic threatens in his chest.

That cock is significantly wider than three fingers.

"Shhhh." Washington's body is an inferno settling along Hamilton's back, and he nuzzles beneath Hamilton's jaw. Presses soft kisses to his speeding pulse. "You can do this, my boy. You're going to enjoy it. I promise."

Hamilton shivers, but he leans in to the nuzzling warmth of Washington's mouth. Ignores the unavoidable path of tears down his face when he blinks blurry moisture away. He can't look his captain directly in the eye. Not just because he's ashamed, but because the glow is too bright; even when he closes his eyes it's there. Jarring in the stillness.

He feels a shift of Washington's hips behind him, a slick fumbling between his forcibly-splayed thighs, and then Washington's cock—blunt and hot and slick—drives inescapably forward.

" _Stop_ ," Hamilton gasps, twisting ineffectually beneath the weight of Washington's body.

But the relentless length keeps coming, filling him by agonizing degrees.

"Let me in, Alexander." Washington pants the words against Hamilton's throat. "Stop fighting and _let me in_."

The rebuke makes Hamilton realize just how badly he is tensing his body. His ass is clenched tight without any conscious intent. Resisting the sizable intrusion threatening to split him apart. God, he is tempted to keep fighting—to maintain this one last line of rebellion—to make Washington work for every painful inch.

But it's not Washington who will leave such an encounter hurt. And Hamilton draws a shuddering breath as he wills his body to relax. The effort helps. The cock filling him slides forward a little easier. He is still too tight—Washington is still too big—but the burning, aching stretch is muted now. Bearable. He exhales shakily and draws another uneven breath.

He whimpers when Washington's hips settle flush against his ass, Washington's balls nudging against him in a mockery of intimacy. His captain's entire body blankets him now, a crushing inferno of entitled heat. The weight of all that broad muscle makes it difficult to breathe—or maybe it's the cock impaling him that's the problem—the less tangible crush of betrayed feeling in Hamilton's chest.

They remain motionless like that for a long damn time. Rationally Hamilton knows it's so that his body time to adjust. But his rational mind doesn't give a fuck when the stillness makes it impossible to ignore the details assaulting his senses. Not just the fullness deep inside him, the aching stretch of his ass around the sizable girth. But the press of Washington's body on top of him. The quick, shallow, panting breaths over sweat-slick skin. The smell of sex in the air and the coolness of the cave.

The uncomfortable line of his own renewed arousal, unwelcome and uncomfortable, trapped beneath their combined weight.

" _Move_ ," he pleads, because there's no point begging Washington to take the damn thing out of him completely. "God, just do it, fuck me and get it over with."

Blessedly, Washington listens. From stillness one instant to a roll of his hips, jostling the rigid length inside Hamilton without pulling out. Washington braces his weight on his knees a moment later, rocking his hips back—dragging his cock partway out of Hamilton's body—and then letting gravity pull him forward again. Burying himself anew, just as deep as before. But at least he doesn't fall motionless this time. No, thank god, this time he repeats the rocking momentum. Fucking Hamilton hard, crushing him against the altar with every powerful thrust. 

Hamilton keens as he's ridden, covering his mouth to try and muffle the humiliating sounds. Even if he wanted to escape the punishing thrusts—fuck he wants to escape—there's nowhere he can go as Washington's cock rides repeatedly, relentlessly into him. The stone beneath him is unyielding. He has no leeway.

No control.

It should be a relief when the pain begins to ease, as his body adjusts to the intrusion and loses some of its stubborn tightness. But instead Hamilton is angry. Furious because now that he is not in agony, he can't escape the burst of pleasure every time Washington's cock shoves against that particular place inside him. Now it _does_ feel good, and he doesn't want it, can't deal with the fact that his body is responding as though this unfamiliar Washington is his lover and not his rapist.

He _knows_ Washington isn't finished yet, and so he startles when the weight on top of him withdraws. The cock pounding into him drags out too quickly, making him choke a startled sound.

Washington's hands are on his hips an instant later, bruising strength repositioning him, shoving Hamilton onto his back and darting lower. Grasping his thighs and wrenching them apart with unnecessary violence.

After all this, it's no surprise when Washington maneuvers into the space between and tugs Hamilton down onto the relentless line of his cock. For all Hamilton's exhaustion, there's no pain this time as Washington shoves deep. Only the same continuous ache and the stretch of fullness driving deep.

This time when Washington's weight blankets him, it is even worse than before. An embrace between their bodies as Hamilton instinctively clings to his captain's broad shoulders, desperate for something to hold onto. The endless rutting between his thighs continues, maddening, but it's somehow more intimate like this. Hamilton's cock is no longer trapped immobile against stone; there is inescapable friction as Washington moves now. Heat and rhythm and the unexpected precipice of a third orgasm looming just out of reach.

He doesn't want to come like this. Before, when it was really Washington touching him, that was different. Strange—desperate circumstances—but _good_. Hamilton understood the rules. He was in control, accepting help from his captain who would never hurt him. Returning to the ship was going to be unfathomably awkward, but awkwardness is surmountable.

How is he supposed to look his captain in the face after _this_?

His eyes are closed as he rides alternating waves of humiliation and pleasure. Even if he could bear to see Washington in this moment, the light has grown too bright. A painful incandescence.

He startles when Washington takes his mouth in a brutal kiss—a perfect, cruel mirror of the rough way he is still using Hamilton's body. Washington's hard cock rams into him faster now. The stuttering, helpless rhythm rides closer and closer to the edge.

Hamilton comes—a pathetic cry and barely any mess after everything else that's happened—and Washington keeps fucking him. There is a ruthlessness to his movements now. Every thrust a violent attack slamming roughly into Hamilton's body, one after another, so fast he can't breathe.

When Washington finally comes, it's with a surge of light so staggering that even through closed eyelids the brightness hurts. Hamilton cries out, spine arching, fingers twisting in the jacket of Washington's uniform. Washington's fingers dig into his hips, bruising, holding him still. Keeping him pinned. Teeth dig into his throat, a sucking bite as Washington growls into his skin; it's the only sound he makes as he spends in Hamilton's body.

\- — - — - — - — -

Hamilton wakes warm and aching, and confused because he doesn't remember passing out.

There are fingers moving gently through his hair, and something soft and solid beneath his cheek. He feels sated and lethargic, sore, and he does not know where he is.

Cautiously, he blinks his eyes open. The sight of the cave—lit imperfectly by two hand-lamps that have been propped at awkward angles a short distance away—is all it takes to jar his memory loose. Where he is. Why he hurts. He startles upright and nearly falls off the narrow stone bench he is lying on.

A broad hand steadies him, and Hamilton's head whips around so fast his neck twinges.

"Easy, Lieutenant. You're perfectly safe." There is something quietly shattered beneath the words. Something alarmingly like heartbreak. Hamilton swallows hard and stares.

Washington sits on the bench beside him. Not just beside him—he was obviously the something-soft-and-solid Hamilton was resting on—his head on Washington's thigh. Hamilton is still touching his captain, clinging to him for balance. Even now that he is steady, he can't seem to let go.

He can't see the altar. They're facing the wrong side of the sanctuary—the empty archway into a dark hall beyond—and Hamilton is certain it's by design.

The silence is nearly complete as Washington waits for him to catch his bearings. The look on the captain's face is so meticulously guarded as to leave no doubt that he remembers every mind-fucked moment of what he did on that altar. Not even worry shows through, and he _must_ be worried. The mask is too perfect. A total absence of reaction that Hamilton only ever sees in the most dire circumstances.

"I'm okay," he says.

Washington doesn't acknowledge the blatant lie. "You should try the exit again."

It's only now that Hamilton realizes he's dressed. Washington's work, surely. He wears his uniform, but no boots. One of his sleeves has been torn at the seam, badly enough that he'll need to repair or replace it on the ship.

He lets go of Washington belatedly. His ass twinges when he sits squarely on the bench—he's never known quite this kind of discomfort—and he glances around for his boots. Startles when Washington rises from the bench to collect them, then returns to kneel at Hamilton's feet.

There's a noticeable crack in his unreadable facade now. "Can I…?" He gestures between the boots and Hamilton's stocking-clad feet. An offer of assistance that Hamilton almost turns down for sheer stubborn pride. But the thought of leaning down far enough to tug the boots on… Why put himself through that when Washington is right here offering to help?

"Yeah." He flushes with embarrassment—and with something more personal as his brain juxtaposes a different image of Washington on his knees. "Sure. Thanks."

This time, the archway lets him through.

"Thank god," Washington breathes from a step behind him, and Hamilton turns to look over his shoulder. Another crack in the facade: Washington's eyes are wider than usual. Absent the unnatural glow from the altar. Expressive and dark, but difficult to read in the light from the hand lamps.

Washington hands one of the lamps over, along with the rest of Hamilton's equipment. The tricorder is a reassuring weight in his hands and he immediately opens it, accesses the screen that will tell him exactly what energy the device has been passively recording for the past couple hours.

The scans tell him nothing. There's the spike of interference, but nothing else. Nothing to explain the invisible forcefield that prevented him from leaving the sanctuary, or the fact that he can travel through the archway unhindered now. Nothing to correspond with the blinding light that possessed Washington on that damn altar. Nothing that resembles _answers_ , and Hamilton nearly throws the tricorder across the hall in frustration.

"Maybe a shipboard analysis will turn something up," Washington says softly. "Put it down for now, Lieutenant. We have a long way to travel."

They _do_ have a long way to travel. It's an agonizing distance when every step is complicated by the deep-seated ache slowing him down. All the worse when he flinches at a bad step, and Washington catches it, and the rigid facade of his expression cracks yet again.

"I'm sorry," Washington says when they reach the surface. Improbably, they're not yet late for their scheduled check-in. They've made it just under the wire. Just in time for a painful conversation, apparently.

Even though talking about what happened is the last thing Hamilton wants to do, he looks his captain in the eye and says, "Sir?"

Washington blinks at him and the last of his failing facade fractures away, leaving an expression of guilty heartbreak in its wake. "We don't have to talk about it now. It can wait until we've filed our respective reports. Until after… I just… I needed to say the words before we beam back to the ship. _I'm sorry_."

Apprehension tightens in Hamilton's gut. "You're not planning to do anything stupid once we get back, are you?"

"I'm planning to follow protocol."

"There _is no_ protocol for this. That's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about _you_."

The look Washington gives him in answer can only be described as cagey.

" _Sir_." Hamilton glares through the frantic thudding of his own pulse. "I don't know what you plan on putting in _your_ report? But I intend to make it clear that none of what happened was your fault."

"That's not—"

"In fact, I'll do one better. If you try and pin any of this bullshit on yourself, I'll file a second report contradicting you in excruciating detail."

"Alexander—"

"So go ahead," Hamilton concludes, heart beating faster, face hot, neck prickling. "Call my bluff. I'll drag us into evidentiary hell and in the end they'll _have_ to listen to me. Because I'm right. Which means we might as well skip the part where you embellish your report to make yourself sound like a villain."

Washington stares at him for a very long time after that. There's anger in the set of his jaw, and incredulity in dark eyes.

"I hurt you," Washington says at last. It's clear from his tone that 'hurt' is nowhere near the word he really wants to use.

"You weren't in your right mind. Even if you were, I didn't leave you much choice."

"I should've listened to you from the start. If I'd gone for help in the first place—"

"Something worse might've happened while you were gone!" Exasperation kicks bright and unpleasant behind Hamilton's ribs. "The cave could've collapsed. The altar could have driven me insane. We have _no way to know_ , and there's no point pretending otherwise."

Washington falls quiet. His protests pause, but Hamilton has a feeling they have not ceased entirely.

"What?" he demands when the silence stretches too long.

Washington's shoulders stiffen and his mouth presses into a thin line. He looks distinctly like he would prefer _not_ to answer the question. Like he's holding a whole avalanche of painful confessions inside, and has no desire to voice them.

Hamilton takes a step toward him. "Sir?"

A slow breath, a measurable hesitation, and Washington says, "It's nothing." Firm. Unyielding. There will be no coaxing a different answer past those defenses.

Even if Hamilton wanted to try, he doesn't have a chance before Washington's communicator chirps. The Nelson checking in. Preparing to beam them aboard.

"Have medical staff standing by," Washington orders, giving Hamilton a look that dares him to protest.

Hamilton keeps his mouth shut. Much as he hates the thought, he knows there's no way around it.

Protocol.

At least he knows Washington will have to submit to the same evaluation. Maybe sickbay's scanners will find something. An explanation. Aftereffects from the inexplicable light, from whatever sabotaged Washington's faculties in that cave.

Maybe they will get some answers, late but better than nothing.

As the ringing swirl of the transporter beam begins to glow around him, Hamilton exhales and braces himself for whatever comes next.


End file.
